“…So, what’s for dinner tonight?”
She regretted it the instant it left her mouth.
And yet Yan Mian reacted like it was the funniest thing, her lips curving into a smile. “Go ask them.”
She nodded toward the kitchen.
Zhu Lexing fidgeted silently, but a thought flashed unbidden through her mind.
Yan Mian looked so beautiful when she smiled.
That evening, under Liu Su’s arrangements, Yan Mian’s account received its verification badge.
She was still trending on the hot search, and marketing accounts immediately jumped in to promote her automatically.
Meanwhile, Zhu Lexing made sure to share Yan Mian’s profile page in the group chat, the meaning obvious: lift a finger and give her a follow.
Everyone got the hint without a word. One by one, they each added a new follow on the social platform.
It wasn’t until late into the night that Qiao Qiao sent Zhu Lexing a 【9】.
Zhu Lexing stared at the flipped-six shorthand, thinking back to her solemn vow to Qiao Qiao just yesterday that she wouldn’t let Yan Mian enter the entertainment industry: “…”
Whatever. No shame, no limits!
Liu Su heard about it that same night.
Zhu Lexing wasn’t privy to the exact machinations behind the scenes, but starting from the third day, Yan Mian had already requested the afternoon off from school. Clearly, she’d formally signed the contract and would be heading to the film crew after lunch.
The production was pure youthful vibes, titled 《Bygone Youth》. It told the story of high school life at a rundown third-rate school—a melodramatic tale where the protagonist, the side character, and the hotshot transfer student got tangled in a love triangle. None of them dared to shatter the fragile balance. Through endless awkward spats, jealous bickering, passionate longing, and moments where they wanted to throttle each other, they eventually realized that studying was the real path forward. In a flash of enlightenment, they buckled down and aced their exams, landing spots at an elite 985 university half a year later.
The role Yan Mian had landed was that of the glamorous transfer student, Chi Li.
The car was filled with a pleasant fragrance.
Liu Su’s driver was the one taking Yan Mian to the set. As she flipped to the last page of the script, she smiled and said, “Miss Yan, we’re almost there. Got the script mostly memorized?”
Yan Mian finally pulled herself out of the story. She nodded, but her hand unconsciously drifted to her phone.
In the short time since leaving school, Li Nian had already bombarded her with dozens of messages. Most were about wanting to catch her acting live on set, and she’d even said she’d swing by after classes let out that afternoon.
Yan Mian hesitated for a moment before replying to Li Nian: If it’s okay, I’ll have driver sis film some of the acting for me. I’ll send it over later.
Li Nian fired back a string of emojis right away.
Yan Mian’s oddball anxiety eased up quite a bit.
She flipped open the script again, reviewing the scenes they were shooting that afternoon over and over.
Truth be told, her memory was sharp, and the full storyline was already etched into her mind.
Yet she still felt this inexplicable restlessness. It was her first shot—if she blew it, would there be a second chance? A third?
She recalled that top comment, the one hoping to see more of her on screen.
Yan Mian fell silent and closed the script.
By the time they arrived, the crew had been shooting for several hours. The set was fully rigged with equipment—cameras everywhere you looked.
The middle-aged man in the duckbill cap spotted her right away and waved her over. “You must be Yan Mian. First time acting? No worries—I’ll walk you through the scene, and you’ll get it.”
Yan Mian felt a bit bewildered but still followed his directions and climbed into the Ferrari.
This was her very first scene in the whole movie: stepping out of the car. The shot would start wide and zoom in close, capturing the character’s domineering, cool, flashy, handsome, and utterly arrogant vibe from every angle.
“Give me a look like you despise everyone around you,” the director said, standing right in front of her. He clenched his fists dramatically. “Think about it—you were a student at a prestigious academy yesterday, and today you’re dumped into a dump like this. What’s going through your head?”
Behind the director, the other two actors in the love triangle were sipping water.
One guy, one girl. The girl, Chen Lu, silently rolled her eyes, while the guy, Song Li, flashed Yan Mian a friendly smile.
Yan Mian hesitated, pondering the “right” answer, when the director waved her off. “Yan Mian, just spit out your real thoughts!”
Yan Mian had no choice. “My thoughts? Study hard and test back into my old school.”
The director: “…”
Chen Lu choked on her water and burst out laughing.
The assistant director hurried over, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “Yan Mian’s always been top of her grade.”
The director went quiet, then turned to Chen Lu. “What’s so funny? What’s your real thought?”
Chen Lu struck the same over-the-top pose he’d just done. “Of course it’s looking down on everyone here! Supreme under heaven, only I reign!”
That snapped the director right back on track. “Yes! Exactly! Yan Mian, your grades might be stellar, but you’re on set now—immerse yourself in the role! Give me that mocking-the-world glare!”
All eyes turned to Yan Mian’s face. She felt a twinge of embarrassment, her palms growing slick with sweat.
She looked at the director, frowning slightly. “I—”
But the director lit up like he’d discovered a prodigy. “Perfect! That’s the look—disdain for everyone, but your manners keep it under wraps. Just that subtle frown drips with sarcasm! Outstanding!”
He was absolutely pumped, and the crew around him was even more so. “Director’s got the golden eye!”
“Director nailed it!”
Yan Mian suddenly wondered if starring in this drama had been…
A very questionable decision.
~~~
When Qiao Qiao suggested, “Let’s ditch class and watch Yan Mian film,” Zhu Lexing was about to flat-out refuse.
But Qiao Qiao unzipped her bag, revealing a camera inside.
“You already know about my killer photography skills,” Qiao Qiao said, hamming it up like she was in her own one-woman show. “A bargain-bin crew like this—is it even gonna bother with proper stills, character portraits, or behind-the-scenes shots for Yan Mian?”
Zhu Lexing: “…Does it matter?”
Qiao Qiao: “I’ve got dance class this evening. If we don’t go now, we won’t make it later.”
Zhu Lexing: “…No.”
Ever since arriving in this world, Zhu Lexing had taken leaves of absence, but she’d never skipped class.
With the System’s insistence on all things positive, Zhu Lexing figured she might even get zapped if she skipped class. To avoid any such risk, she decided to nip the problem in the bud.
But seeing Qiao Qiao’s heartbroken expression, Zhu Lexing reached out a hand.
Qiao Qiao thought there might be hope, but then she heard, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t help you take a few photos.”
Qiao Qiao: “…”
After school, Zhu Lexing hailed a cab and headed straight for the film crew.
Though they were still in Rong City, the shooting location was all the way across town.
By the time she arrived, Yan Mian was in the middle of an outdoor scene. There weren’t many people on set, but even from a distance, Zhu Lexing could hear the director’s passionate shouts blasting through his megaphone.
Security was present and eyed the masked, hatted Zhu Lexing with suspicion for a moment.
That was until he spotted the camera in her hand. He instantly went limp, like a dead fish.
Clearly, he had pegged her as paparazzi or a reporter.
The director had given strict orders: the crew was keeping a low profile, so any exposure was good exposure. Photographers weren’t to be turned away.
There were two teaching buildings, and Zhu Lexing headed for the one farther from the crowd. After all, camera lenses had zoom functions—no need to worry about not seeing anything from afar.
She climbed to the second floor. It was an old school with a real sense of age to it; the iron railings reeked of rust when she leaned on them. Watching the actors from this angle instantly transported Zhu Lexing back to her previous life on set.
In the same spot, she looked up to see a bunch of proxy photographers on the upper floors, snapping away at her relentlessly.
Zhu Lexing pulled out her camera. After fiddling with it for a bit to figure out how to turn it on, she aimed it at Yan Mian.
Summer was fast approaching, and gusts of hot wind whipped past.
Amid the distant clamor, Zhu Lexing held the camera backward, with the lens pointed at herself.
System: 【Host, you’re holding it upside down.】
Zhu Lexing replied deadpan, “I just want to take a selfie. What are you waiting for?”
System: 【Isn’t the Host supposed to be taking photos for Yan Mian?】
…How had this suddenly turned into selfie time?
Truth be told, Zhu Lexing knew next to nothing about photography. She’d seen it done, but she wasn’t any good at it. The only reason she’d taken on this task was because she trusted the System could handle it.
She couldn’t very well admit that to the System’s face, though, so she said with utmost seriousness: 【What do you know? I’m testing you. System, you can’t do anything right on a normal day—why can’t you manage a simple photo now?】
The suddenly gaslit System: 【……】
Click. Zhu Lexing flipped the lens back around.
The System had tweaked some settings, and the image quality came out like it had a built-in filter. The weathered bricks of the old building, the faint golden light catching on the peeling, mottled railings—it all evoked a beautifully desolate, muted elegance.
A perfect landscape shot.
Everything about it was spot-on…
Except Zhu Lexing herself wasn’t in it.
Zhu Lexing: “…”
The display parameters shifted again as the System zoomed in exponentially. In the frame, Yan Mian held a water bottle, beads of sweat trickling down her temple. She was listening to the director, falling silent at times or hesitating as if about to speak.
The moment Zhu Lexing spotted the Omega’s figure, she cast all other thoughts aside. Click.
Amid the crowd, Yan Mian stood out more than ever. Golden light danced along her hair, gilding the strands like a halo. She stood quietly beside the other actors, saying something to them. Her costume—a long black skirt—hugged her figure, shattering her usual cool demeanor and lending her an air of subtle rebellion.
Zhu Lexing snapped several shots in a row. Yan Mian seemed to sense it and looked up.
This one was perfectly centered. The girl’s hair fluttered in the breeze, the background a dreamy blur.
Zhu Lexing’s breath caught in her throat.
Yan Mian narrowed her eyes, spotting the silhouette of someone holding a camera.
She was tempted to ask those around her who it was, but the director called out, “Yan Mian, channel that intensity from earlier! Don’t go all limp and listless on me.”
Yan Mian could only pull herself back together. She drew in a breath, a touch of helplessness flickering across her face as she resumed her blank expression.
Zhu Lexing hadn’t anticipated Yan Mian turning around like that. After the shot, she instinctively whipped her head away. One hand pressed to her racing heart, she stood there for a few seconds before heading downstairs. Along the way, she exported the photos and sent a few to Qiao Qiao.
But that final shot—the one where Yan Mian stared straight into the lens—Zhu Lexing kept only for herself, deleting it from the camera.
Qiao Qiao had mentioned she had class, so it wasn’t until Zhu Lexing found a café, ordered some food, and let her mood settle a bit that the reply came in.
—Is this the first leaked photo of Yan Mian to hit the internet?
Zhu Lexing thought it reeked of entertainment industry lingo.
But she wasn’t wrong.
Qiao Qiao followed up: You’ve got leaked photos, so you need an account to post them from.
—I’ve got an account ready, but it wouldn’t feel right without calling it a fan support site, right?
—You’ve already set up the fan support site. It’d be a shame if you didn’t take on the role of station sister.
